


Literary criticism

by bletillastriata



Series: Of monsters and butterflies [1]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, English is not my native language, Experimental Style, Flash Fic, I apologize for any grammar mistake, M/M, Monologue, No Plot/Plotless, POV First Person, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-24 22:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9790697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bletillastriata/pseuds/bletillastriata
Summary: Poetry was the red thread that pulled you into my life.





	1. Chapter 1

Even the months I lived under your roof, I didn't see you much, at least, not enough to get used to your presence. You spent most of the time out on missions underground while I sat on the balcony of your apartment, reading the books from your library, trying to "rehabilitate” so I could become functional soon. You allowed me to move around the house freely as long as I didn't go out (not that I could, with the chip the CCG had injected into my skin)  
  
So, as the clock tick tack helped me focus on the printed words, some carefully underlined with a light pencil caught my attention. Was it you the one who did it? You didn't seem like someone who would write on books, but there it was, a reminder you had held the book I was holding and read the verses I was reading.  
  
One day I found a small exclamation sign right next to the "Ode to an Old Ainu".  
  
I wanted to ask you what did you like about it to make you mark it as such. What had touched you the most? I wanted to ask you about what was the meaning you gave to all the lines you had underlined. I wanted to ask what was your favorite book, your favorite poem, your favorite song, your favorite color, your favorite animal...  
  
But then you came at night, you didn't even eat or changed your suit, sometimes you were so tired you couldn't bring yourself to walk to your own bed and fell asleep on the sofa, if not the very floor. You had a slight stench of blood that gave me the chills. No questions were asked, no words spoken. Arima-san, you were a busy hardworking man, who am I to bother you with silly matters like books and poetry? Silly me, I thought as I tried to put a pillow under your head and a blanket over your body, and sat next to you memorizing your bone structure, the length of your eyelashes and the pale red of your lips. Next, you would wake up before I did and it was so that I didn't get to see you for days.  
  
Somehow, it made the moments we could share together feel more surreal and magic when you took my breath away with your faint smiles that gave me the illusion that maybe, just maybe you enjoyed my company, that I was your friend and not just your prisoner. It was in one of these moments when I remembered I had something bugging me, and I gathered my courage to ask you shyly what did you think of the poem.  
  
Those gray eyes, so pale and cold like a winter morning shined and I saw my blushing face reflecting on them.  
  
"I was wondering if you had read it, Arima-san" I babbled as if the coldness of your gaze froze my words before they left my mouth, "I thought you would like it"  
  
You examined me, your expression unreadable and confusing as always.  
  
And you said nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

I hadn't touched a book for a long time. Little by little, as the blackness slowly consumed my field of vision like ants slowly eating a dead moth, reading became a big chore to my eyes. It was the only thing that managed to distract me from my increasingly depressive thoughts. And soon, I forgot what it felt to stop time, and live a life where I was not me, where I could be anyone for a few hours. My library was soon filled with dust and mold, and my mind with boredom and melancholy.  
  
And now, you appear, holding a bag of books and a smile in your face, telling me I would enjoy them, that you read them and thought of me, me, of all people. Just thinking of forcing my vision to focus on the kanjis made my eyes hurt already. But Haise, I can never tell you no. I will read them even if my eyes are in excruciating pain, even if I take months to finish, I want to share something with you just like you bothered to share something with me. I'll read your books and I'll like them and discuss about them with you, and hear your sweet voice giving me more books titles to read.  
  
Because you are the only reason why I returned to what used to be my only hobby, my only coping, and, despite the eye soreness that it causes me, it was because of you that I rediscovered the sensation of losing myself in beautiful words.  
  
Because you recited that poem in the sewers that night, with crimson flowers sprouting from your eye sockets. For a few seconds, I saw the image in my mind: _Perishing is the living corpse. The summer day, the white sun-beams, he stares downward, stunned motionless_.  
  
I forgot the ugly place where I was, the hideous person I am.  
  
And then I bleed.  
  
For the first time, I could remember.  
  
It was you, the first to touch me, the first who penetrated me and got under my skin.  
  
As much as I tried not to think about you, the memory of your voice haunted me and soon I found myself at a bookstore buying the anthology by Hakushuu, forcing my eyes to read it, slipping it under the door of your cell to make you stop crying, bringing you pillows and blankets, wanting to see you every second of every day of every week of the year.  
  
Haise, I'm so selfish. How could I have the nerve of craving to see your beautiful eyes gleaming with joy after impaling them that night.  
  
How dare I, someone so ugly, so rotten, want you all for me.


End file.
